


We Knew Each Other Once

by CravenWyvern



Category: Little Nightmares (Video Game)
Genre: Blindness, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Dolls, Food, Gen, Gnomes (Little Nightmares), Mentions of Six, Mentions of The Bellhop, Mentions of The Guests, Mentions of The Lady, Smoking, Spoilers, Updated Chapter One, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-26 20:56:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10794612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: They lived in their work, but there was a before time, long ago.Nowadays he cared for and packed up the main ingredient, hours upon hours spent upon little lives.Nowadays they cooked banquets, feasts for those who never even tasted what they mouthed.And time and The Maw were not kind to them, not at all, but ties run deep even over long distances, even over vast abysses and voids full of sea water.Memories run deeper, even if buried underneath The Maws all consuming Hunger.





	1. Plate For The Janitor

**Author's Note:**

> *Updated to fit more with the games mapping and building schematics.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyday life for the lone hermit, with a surprisingly thoughtful gift.

Gather up, place down, tie nice and snug, tug and reach up, high up, snag, and let go.

Stretch again, once more, gather up in long fingers, thinned meat and slowly cooling skin against his palms, and wrap up once more in firm, pliant, coarse cloth. Tie it up, expertly twisting the rough rope around and around, and then a knot to keep it together. Now all dressed up, reach it up to catch a hook, it's path only just barely slowed by its load, and then he let go, listened for a moment as it swung to and fro, at the creak as the machinery took the bundle up to the next landing.

His hand reached again, felt around for another load, but the crate was empty, dry. And cold under his sensitive fingers, a low hiss as he pulled back. Careful, even breaths, tasting the air before his teeth clacked together and he ground them for a moment, a crack in his jaw and feeling the muscle relax and the pulling on his skin loosen, a deep breath as his chest expanded and everything shifted in him for a moment.

Outstretching again, feeling around, this time to the floor, and the harshness of the wooden boards melted away under the softer mats, pliant and yielding under persistent fingers. His work required a lot of him, and as such his fingers and hands suffered, calluses forming that he tried oh so hard to ease away, blisters bubbling in between fingers and bursting into pain and stinging and blood and pus. Those were the worst of times, the use of his hands and his sense of surroundings distorted and tinged with stinging pain.

Concentrating was always hard when ones hands did not wish to work, trembling and twitching with sensitivity. Vermin slipped in more often when he was not in top form, dirty feet marking the floor with crumbs and trails of stink. The children suffered for it, even as he tried to keep his mood in check, tried to keep things clean and orderly. The flesh was soft for a reason; bruising ruined the meat, and the nasty notes he got for it were always unwanted. 

The way the paper itself felt, grimy and roughed up and written upon and erased and again written upon, over and over to create weak, disgusting paper, was enough to set him off. Who were they, to have such feelings towards him? They did not care for the children, they did not move and swing and climb, they did not suffer splinters or blisters or bruises or bumps!

They did nothing but cook! Cook, of all things!

He clacked his teeth, digging fingers into the soft mat before easing his grip, the grinding rough and uneven as his his jaw moved side to side. Another breath of air, the stink of this place deep under layers of the open window, under the scents of salt and water and cold metal. Brushing over the mat, pressing here and there to ease tension and feel it drag under his skin, he finally started moving. 

Soon he'd be journeying back down, to fill another cage, another crate, and then to bring back here, to laden the hooks with the flesh oh so wanted up high. Now, however, was time for rest. His room called, bed ready for him. Today had been long and tiring, just like every other day.

Reaching up a hand, carefully bending his arm this way and that, and it was slow, easy precision to scratch along the fleshline of his forehead, easing under the wrinkles for a moment before his other hand scooped his hat away and he itched at the top of his head. A deep sigh, of relief and satisfaction and pleasure, and then the hat went back on. Grimy sweat on his hands now, fingernails dirty and uncomfortable from the dust and ash and flesh he has been handling and slowly been covered in, but his head tingled pleasantly and he felt more at ease. Rarely time to feel things anymore; it was always work work work, wasn’t it, always raising and playing and feeding and culling and lugging around and packing and the ever so tiring chasing of vermin. Diseased things, oh so destructive, and the danger to the children was very real.

Too real, and they infested this place, his home, and he feared the day he'd be finding corpses instead of breathing children, gouges in their necks, eyes long gone and fingers and toes missing because of a vermins wanton hunger. He wanted far more traps, specifically mice traps, but those above needed them more it seemed. He was sure they didn't, their own on topness when it comes to work favoring the catching and killing of vermin, with butcher knives and metal wires and their own grubby hands, and yet they sent nothing to help aid him.

Selfish pricks, the two of them. He very much needed more traps. Did they wish for vermin to be mixed with the youthful flesh, or worse, to have damaged, gnawed upon meat?

But he digress. Matters of vermin and flesh quality was not his job. It was of raising and culling and packing, nothing more or less, and letting the other two deal with such things out of his nature was not for him to ponder.

Such thoughts were not for him.

Hands stretched, trailing the soft, smoothed mat, catching only rarely on worn curls or rips, and he plodded forward, lolling his head side to side with each step. The roll of his own movements matched the rocking of his home, ground groaning and creaking as it rocked under swells of current and pressure, and it was with clear memory that he passed the doorway and started to make his way to his room. His feet ached, swollen feeling matted down in heavy fatigue, standing and moving under his own weight for much too long finally becoming a symptom, and he took his course slowly, more focused on the mats soft texture and slow push and pull that lulled his thoughts. 

A hand rose up, fingers curling and uncurling for a moment as he searched the air, and then he found the lever, grasping and pulling down slowly. The door rose loudly, squeaks and screams of gears and pulleys tugging the metal pieces up, the screen sliding into itself as the doorway was cleared. He kept his grip all the way until he crossed the threshold, easily pulling his hand and arm back with before the door slotted back down, bones popping in and out of place as his limb folded into a more comfortable position.

His fingers drifted over the metal cages, light taps here or there and listening silently to the frantic breathes and muted gasps as he passed them by. The children here were naughty things, much worse off then the others; leaving his care like that ensured malnutrition, ensured pain and suffering. Soon enough they'll be in a better place.

A low gurgled grow rose as he brushed over one of the smaller cages, his face curling into a snarl, wrinkles folding and peeling at the sound. Among the runaways were vermin, rotten smelling things, of mold and fungus and other such parasites that grew in the dark depths. He had no intention of sending the thing hissing at him between the bars up the the higher floors; it would have a worse fate.

He absolutely hated vermin.

Carefully feeling the cold metal ground, fingers lightly tapping over the slick surface, he rolled his neck, shrugging his shoulders and cracking bones and muscle as he palmed the door, the floor rocking ever so slightly and making him lean heavily to the side. The door dragged harshly over the flooring, scraping and making a racket as he pushed through. Standing there for a moment, grinding his jaw and feeling his teeth clack against each other, pressure keeping his focus as the world rocked and leaned heavily, he slowly turned back around and tugged the doors closed again; a precaution against anymore disgusting vermin.

The open air here was big, telling of the room that rose high above him, and it was with a mix of confident ease and healthy caution that he waddled forward, skirting the edge before stretching his arms out, fingers searching for the other side. Once a grip was found he raised himself, stiffening the bones in his forearms and practically hopping over the chasm, carefully setting down his legs and feeling the weight of the day settle into his muscles as his arms retracted and folded back. His fingers searched over the metal flooring, reaching to the sides and browsing over the door and its carved eye and then to the stairwell, the metal piping and cold steps that creaked and groaned as the walls moved and flexed under the pressure outside of them.

The sounds of his home almost covered it up, but something creaked much too abnormally nearby. The effect was instantaneous, head jerking up in a sharp twist, mouth opening and nostrils flaring as his body stiffened, exhaustion temporarily forgotten. He breathed quickly, almost silently through his nose, listening intently as the walls creaked and bent under the weight behind them, yet the only stink was of oldness, leather and old dirt, dust and musk and sweat. Very old stuff, something from before now perhaps, not one of the children's, and with a staggering quickness he pushed forward, arms reaching out as he hobbled to the wall opposite of the stairs and hands wrapped tightly around-

An old shoe. 

His fingers pressed against it, the cold leather a relief on his tired skin, and he twisted it in his hands for a moment, twining the old, frayed laces between long wrinkled fingers. His nails pressed against and then into the opening, feeling the shoes insides before pulling away, and then he dropped it with a dull thud, echoing in the open room.

Turning slowly back around, fingers twisting and turning as he trailed the metal wall and smooth flooring, he slowed as he reached for the stairway. The weight of the last few days was upon him, and now it was finally time for rest.

He plodded up the steps to the next flooring, open door and secrets ignored as he continued up, the freezing cold of the metal that slopped up and up encircled by his hands, cold and smooth against his palms, before another sound distracted him as he reached the next landing. He stopped, turned ever so slightly to the closed metal door, away from the last stairway, curling his arms in and twisting his fingers at the sound, mouth curling in confusion as he rocked his body in tune with his homes movements.

The clear ring of a bell rang out again, sharp and piercing in the duller creaks and groans that normally filled this place, echoing behind the thick set door. It reminded him of something, just at the back of his mind, and slowly he made his way to it, fingers reaching out and brushing over boxes and other such useless objects before reaching the door.

His hand reached up, traced the eye engraved into the metal slab of a door, feeling the cold rise off of it and sink into his palms, the chimes much louder and insistent here, and with a firm hand he twisted the handle and pushed inwards.

Arms reached out, explored the wooden planked floor and then the carpet, a true carpet with fringes and stiff, dust covered fabric, threading between his fingers with grime, and the clear rings of the bell were sharper now, very close and striking into his ears and leaving a low buzzing ring behind. It only took a moment to raise a hand to it and stop the bell, cold metal grasped in his palm, the tugging of the rope tied to it continuing on for a moment longer before stopping.

The open window blew cold, dead air into the room, over his skin, and he clacked his teeth as the rope tugged again on the bell, rubbing against his fingers. The scents here were practically overwhelmed with the outsides cold stink of salt, yet underneath…

He breathed in deeply, felt his face twist, the wrinkles of his neck cracking and bending stiffly, teeth showing and gums going cold in the air at the rich smells and almost forgotten mix of smelly meat and cloying soap. The bells rope did not tug again, was limp, and one of his hands wrapped around the swinging crate just out the large window, tugged it in carefully as the machinery whined in protest. His other arm slunk out and stretched out the window, palm raised high and flat, and he waved, a gesture of good will towards where the pulley originated from.

He could almost hear the hooting and hollering on the other side, almost remember how excited they'd get sometimes, bellowing out and bouncing against each other in shows of emotion only they ever felt.

Almost.

His face had pulled up more, peeled skin tugging and lips spreading, but the harsh ache of chapped and burning skin made him let out a low hiss of sound through clenched teeth and his face relaxed back, feeling the mass of wrinkles on his face ease back down and rest into only a slight tug.

He unhooked the crate, rope pulled off the frozen cold hook, and carefully set it down, listened as the pulley squeaked something long and shrill before the hook went back, away and upwards.

The crate had no top, hands sliding over the wooden sides and then reaching into its small insides, fingers wavering at the bloom of scent and he clacked his teeth, feeling a slick of saliva dribble down his chin. 

What brought upon this gift he did not know, but better than the flesh and molded bread given to the children. Another brush of smells as he pulled the plate out, carefully keeping it balanced as his home rocked under the waves.

They always did know how to cook a good meal, and he could barely contain himself with it in his hands, a smattering of foodstuff on a porcelain plate, smooth and ever so slightly warm against his palms.

It was almost difficult, hobbling back out to the cold landing and up, carefully raising his legs up to climb the steep steps. It was oh so tempting, to stuff such things into his mouth then and there, but he had more will power than that, arms trembling with fatigue as he reached the last step, staggered into his well lit room. 

Keeping the plate steady, he reached with one arm and tugged the lever down, bed flopping forward and thumping onto the ground, quivering metal and springs as the fabric settled, crossed and contained under thick leather straps. Using the same hand he pulled himself up, slow and easy, breathing in the fumes of the plate and the food set upon it.

Such a long time since he got to taste the fruits of his labors, no reward for his work these days, but this would satisfy him for now. The bedding under him was soft, a relief for his backside from standing and moving constantly these last few days, and with only some difficulty he was able to set the cooling plate into his lap, fingers twitching in anticipation.

No utensils, but nowadays not even they or their guests partook in such pleasantries. He was alone, a solitary hermit, and as such manners were useless here. Eating was not as painless as it had been, skin cracking and sore as his mouth worked, teeth grinding together, tongue now useful for once, and swallowing was even harder, as dry as ever, but the flavors were all he had imagined it to be, what he remembered it to be. 

Such good cooks, the two of them, and soon he'd have to repay their gift back. Something special, as special as this dish, but for now his thoughts turned over and over, more focused than ever on the food in his hands and his mouth.

It had been a very long time since he had something good to eat.


	2. Gifts For The Chefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyday life for the cooks, inturrupted by a gift.

One woke up to the sounds of the walls creaking under vast weight, great groans of metal and wood bending fitfully together. Something shrill and loud echoed, the cry of a lost seagull outside the rooms walls and in the vast open space between levels and the infinite abyss that sank down deep below it all.

Their face twisted, flesh wrinkling even more and eyes stretching ever so slightly as their muscles pulled this way and that, the rolls of dry and hardened skin hanging around their neck cracking and crinkling with pops of sound. They hated seagulls.

The other woke up with a hand in their face, a harsh slap that made them flail their arms about and tangle in the bedding as they were jostled from their sleep. The bellow they made was more of a high pitched scream, face gathering more wrinkles to narrow their eyes and twist their mouth up higher in a gaping expression, hands grasping at the air in blind, half awake panic.

The bed creaked under their weight, one rolling up to sit with their feet hanging off the side for a moment in the darkness, the floor leaning heavily before rocking backwards, and then they raised a chubby arm and tugged the light on with a clicking noise, metal chain cold in their fatty grip.

Their room was clear, a lone colorful ball rolling this way and that in tune with the rocking of the floor, the door closed tight to prevent any vermin of sorts getting in, and the one lumbered off the bed, grabbing for their white puffed hat with grubby hands. Once upon their head, they shook themselves, reaching up and then under to scratch below wrinkled and dried out flesh before grumbling loudly to their brother.

Who had gone back to huddling under the bedding, facing away from them.

The harsh shriek of sound didn't wake them up, but the shove that threw them off the bed to thump heavily on the wooden flooring sure did. The wailing and erratic thrashing under the thick comforter was ignored, the one Chef rolling their shoulders and stretching for a moment before cutting their brother off with some gurgling sounds. They interrupted any attempt the other made at making noise, instead grumbling roughly and waving their hands about, turning back to watch as their brother untangled from under the blanket and looked around blearily.

The seagull, lost and hungry, cried out again, its call loud and clear and piercing, and not even a second passed before the one Chef roared out something not at all like a seagulls voice, hands going to their curled ears in frustration before storming out of the room, slamming the door open as they made their way to the bathroom.

The thud of the bathroom door was met with silence, the other Chef staring groggily at nothing before their mouth stretched open ever so slightly and a clicking noise eased out of their throat, stretching their arms and feeling their face crinkle and bend into the yawn. Scratching the top of their greasy head before their hand meandered down their cheek and then under it, slowly itching under the bags of wrinkles and flesh that made up their chin and then side of their face, the Chef waved a fatty arm about before finding their hat hanging on one of the beds posts. With it upon their head and their face sufficiently itched, they huffed out a dusty breath and shook the excess fragments of dreams away, turning their thoughts to the new day.

Their own walk out of their bedroom was slower, less agitated, and they took their time, stopping by the heater to warm their clammy hands and breath in the ingrained smells of their home.

Mostly of soap, but tinged with smoke and the constant undertones of raw meat hung everywhere. Their trade was their life and livelihood, and their home practically oozed with evidence of such an existence.

By the time they had wandered over to the bathroom its occupant was out, shaking water droplets and traces of soap off their hands as they grumbled darkly, wrinkled face heavy and thick in bags and rolls dragging the corners of their eyes, large mouth greatly exaggerated under the weight. The Chefs hummed to each other, the both of them side stepping around in the tiny hall with the ease of practice, and one went to the elevator while the other went to the toilet to finish their morning business.

Pulling the lever, waiting as the door slide up with loud clanks and chains clacking together, the one Chef stepped into the elevator and waited for it to register their weight. The door slid down a moment later, bringing the Chef down the level to another, their hands crossing together, thick skin pushing and catching against each other, twiddling their fatty fingers. The elevator creaked the door back up, silent and still now that it was being left, and the Chef waddled out of it, thin shoed feet slapping against the moist tiled ground. 

Already smells of cooking food flooded out of the side kitchen, crockpots and pressure cookers working away all hours of the day, and the Chef unhurriedly made their way towards the first stove, ignoring for now the clean cutting board and counters. Soon enough they'd be cutting and chopping and seasoning meats, but first things first; make sure a cooking device did not blow a hole through their home due to poor materials or attention.

As they busied themself with the turning of knobs and opening of lids, stirring and listening to the whistle of pots and the bubbling of broths, the Chef idly scratched their side, dirty and greasy clothing sticky against their skin. The thought rose in their mind that soon they'd need to do laundry, clean the towel and aprons and hats and such. Soon, but not yet, the Chef thought to themself, stirring a boiling batch of stew slowly, watching the brown sludge pocket marked with carrots and peas swirl about around their ladle. 

The guests were still being housed above them.

The season was almost over, thankfully, but not just yet. The Chef checked an oven, bending down half-heartedly to catch a glimpse of the sliced but whole fish decorated with slides of lemon and lime before the wave of heat made them close it up again, eyes squinting ever so slightly and a low gurgling cough in their throat as they inhaled the smells.

Waving a hand about their face, dispelling the citrus scent that hung over them, the Chef rose up and turned only to freeze, eyes widening in alarm as something scurried by.

A rat! A chocked off cry spasmed out of their throat and the Chef stomped forward, arms raised in shock as they followed the vermin. It was a rat! 

Before they could catch up to the intruder, its tall pointed hat wiggling back and forth as it sprinted forward, the Chef witnessed it dart under a cabinet, long stick limbs wiggling as it disappeared. They let out another shocked cry, face wide and wrinkles bundling behind their ears and in the corners of their eyes as they skidded to a halt, almost smashing into the cabinet. They tried to bend down, grubby hand reaching under to paw the tile before retreating and straightening up, staring down at the escape route. 

For a moment their mind turned, face slack and eyes wide as thoughts of the rat in the food, eating the food, standing in the food flooded their mind, and then the Chef hurriedly swung around and jogged back, past the cutting boards and ovens and side kitchen and elevator, which made clacking and clicking noises as it was called upwards. Waddling frantically into the pantry, hands grazing over the shelves and pushing ingredients and jars and bottles this way and that, the Chef wheezed out a victory sound as their hand wrapped around an unused rat trap, metal floppy and unprepared as they tugged it out of the shelf nook it was hiding in. They quickly searched around one more time and ripped off a bit of something on another shelf, the holey cheese grasped tightly in their fatty palms.

They raced past their brother, who let out a surprised cry of alarm as they were pushed aside. The Chef rushed back to the cabinet, trap tight in their hand before they dropped it down with a loud clatter, breathing heavily. Still with thoughts of vermin invading their food, they bent down as best as they could and fingered the trap until it became taunt, set and stressed as they placed the bit of grimy cheese into place.

Leaning back with a huff, wheezing heavily from the exertion, the Chef turned around to face their confused brother, whose mouth was slack as they bellowed something and gestured back behind them, other hand trailing to itch the side of their head in confusion. They started to speak to their brother before another cough crawled up their throat, raising a hand in vain as they hacked dryly for a moment.

By the time they could breath freely their brother had waddled around them, bending over to give the trap a good look before rising up and mumbling a few distorted tsks under their breath.

They grumbled loudly to each other, low gurgles of sound before an unspoken agreement was arranged and they split away, going back to checking ovens and pots and cookers of all sorts, the thoughts of rats and other vermin leaving them the instant they focused on the food. The heat slowly increased, their combined snorts and hacking wheezes and coughs adding with the food that slowly cooked away, and it wasn't long for the smells of food to be mixed with sweat and other odors, a cloying cloud that filled the kitchen.

One Chef, after itching under their slack skin for the umpteenth time, sticky and uncomfortable, wheezed and called to their brother who monitored a pressure cooker as it slowly heated up. A raised hand, flapped in their direction distractedly, was enough of an acknowledgement and the one Chef lumbered their way back, through the clean side kitchen and to the waiting elevator, breathes wheezy and labored under the thick heat of the kitchen that followed them.

Once upon the elevator, its doors closing with rattles and shakes, the Chef sighed heavily, reached up and under their hat to scratch idly through their hair, and when the metal doors opened back up they steadily made their way through the hall, turning sharply and opening the usually shut door next to the bathroom.

The air here was cooler, the windows lining the hall open all the way, carpet and furniture lined with a layer of dust besides the usual paths they took, footsteps lining the fabric with dirt and grime of all sorts. Going straight, feeling the heat from the kitchen slough off them and the breeze from outside wash over their hot and sticky skin, the Chef reached the end of the hall and raised a chubby arm, pushed the wooden door open with ease, the door handle and lock long ago broken and not maintained since. 

The rush of salted cold air billowed up in a harsh, icy wind, meeting them and blowing away the excess heat from the kitchen. Taking a deeper than normal breath, throat itching with an unspent cough, the Chef patted their sides, fiddled with their apron and pants underneath before tugging a packet out of one of their pockets. Raising it up to give it a good look, they shook it and listened a moment before nodding their head. Flicking its lid open, shaking it over the wide open palm of their other hand, they caught a thick stick of a cigar and closed the box, stuffing it back into their pocket before searching forr something else, absent mindedly raising the cigar to their heavily widened mouth, distorted wrinkles tugging on the corners of their eyes.

A lighter was procured, flicked open and on for a moment, the cold wind easing into thick, stagnant air, icy cold and tinged with the taste of metal and salt. The flame caught, cigar pushed unevenly between their thick set lips, and the Chef puffed steadily for a moment before flipping the lighter closed, metal shining brightly even under the stress of their greasy pockets and the wear of time it had withstood. For a second they pondered it, turning the contraption over in one meaty hand and tracing the numbered engraving with their eyes, holding the cigar in place.

They got this a long time ago, from a friend. Of sorts, perhaps, the Chef turning the cold metal lighter in their hand once more before stuffing it into one of their many pockets. It's been a long time since they saw that one.

It's been a long time since they saw anyone in fact, besides their brother, of course. They were always in the same vicinity of their brother, and nothing, absolutely nothing, could tear them apart. Spats and fights aside, they got along incredibly well. Better than a lot of others.

The Chef huffed out a cloud of smoke, hacking up a cough and thumping their chest for a moment, breathing the clear, cold sea air to clear their lungs, cigar tight in one hand. Smoke trailed unevenly out of their squashed nose, looking out into the dark, deep coldness of the abyss, the hanging chains of things they had not put there and the opposing wall of a lower level. Windows speckled it here and there, a few blinding with amber light and others flickering with clear white, and the heavy ambience groaned out across the expanse, blue and foggy with darkness and the sea mist.

They were thankful for the silence. No damn seagulls wandering out and about down here.

The sound of the wooden door being pushed open caught their attention and the Chef slowly turned around, cigar in place between their lips and heavily shifting their weight as the building rocked slowly to the side. Their brother greeted them with a hoot of sound, groaned wheeze out of their lungs as they lumbered into the cold banister. They smelled heavily of sweat, still hot and somewhat panting from the kitchens heat, and they gestured limply to their brother, round mouth gulping in air like a fish. Digging around once more, they handed the packet to their brother, who procured a cigar and then proceeded to bum a light off of their brother, pocketing the box without a moments thought and stuffing the now light cigar into their mouth almost hurriedly.

Mumbling around the cigar, smoke billowing out of their upturned, mostly open mouth, their brother waved a hand about, gesturing this way and that and gurgling out a variety of sounds. They hummed idly, puffing their cigar and listening closely, nodding every once in awhile as they stared out into the blind expanse.

The cigars ran out by the time they both felt sufficiently cooled down, the break coming to an end. The kitchen was currently stabilized, but they'd be going back to continue cooking soon enough. Not as much food as before, at the start of the season, but those who still slept upstairs still needed food. Mostly broth like stews and soups now, to ease up on the guests teeth, but some bigger dishes, like the fish, were for the owner. She liked their food, called for it often.

Both Chefs remembered when she'd visit, when she'd share meals with them, break bread together and talk cheerfully about this and that down in the kitchen. The others would be there too, the babble of their voices so much more comforting than the messy gorging the guests would engage in.

That was a long time ago.

One Chef huffed, breathed out a plume of smoke before dropping the cigar and carefully stomping it out, pressing hard with their thread bare shoes. The other Chef was less minded, chucked the end bit of the cigar over the railing and into the blue mist of the abyss and waving away the smoke from their face with a fatty arm. Their brother growled at them, narrowing their eyes and glaring as their twin brushed them off and blinked blurrily out into the void before turning to the door, pushing it open heavily and slowly.

The both of them meandered down the hall, passing forgotten wooden doors and cold metal doors and completely empty doorways, huffing with thick stomping steps, rolling their bodies as the floor rocked and leaned fitfully. They mumbled and grumbled quietly, low bits of sound about this or that, but before they could fully reach the end of the hall and make their way down to the kitchen they were interrupted.

It was of a bell, a loud, piercing ringing sound that echoed easily in the silence of the cold, mostly disused hallway. One Chef startled, grunted out a gasp and almost smashing into their brother as they half turned, blocking the path. The other Chef halted in time, wavered and looked this way and that with their own startled grunt escaping their throat.

It took a moment to pinpoint the exact room, the exact door, the ringing constant and unbroken as it ran clearly, sharply in the hall, and both Chefs pressed against each other when they skidded to a halt in front of a thick metal door. Smooshed together for a moment, wrinkles bundling against their eyes and foreheads, curling up uncomfortably under their chins and necks, their hats threatening to fall right off, both Chefs stared at the door a moment longer before reaching a hand out simultaneously to gently push the door forward.

It fell with no warning, smashed loudly and heavily into the wooden flooring and splattering splinters here and there. There was a cut off growl of a noise, gurgling and full of surprise before the smashing of the door to the floor silenced it. If the Chefs cared enough to look, they'd have seen the splatters and droplets of left over blood sprinkled here and there with the splinters and boards, a bump in the wooden doors frame that raised it up ever so slightly.

They didn't even notice, however, entranced by the chimes of the bell inside the room. Shuffling over, heavy weight squashing the fallen door flat as they filed in, barely fitting as the floorboards creaked and groaned under their combined weight, one Chef moved forward and silenced the bell, the rope going limp and still almost instantly as their chubby hand closed over the tiny metal instrument. Their wide eyed, gaping expression looked to their brother for a moment, forehead scrunching up with a mass of wrinkles in their bewilderment.

A gust of cold wind blew in, the gaping hole in one side of the room looming with the dark blue mist of the outside, and the room rocked, the wood bending and popping with threatening sounds as the Chefs leaned with the rocking walls, just barely glancing to the hole before turning to the banister with its ripped open doors and in use pulley system, its fencing broken and hanging off the edge. With a low grumble of sound one took the initiative, plump hands reaching out and grabbling with the swinging crate, tugging it back with heavy steps as their brother hurriedly slipped the rope off of the metal hook it had been hanging off of, a whine of worry and confusion escaping their throat as they both shuffled back. The machinery itself was silent for a moment, rocking with the walls of the room before something made a terrible shrieking noise and the rope started moving, hook pulling back and away from them, into the dark abyss and downwards.

Already in agreement, sending a quick glance to the jagged opening that consumed half the room, the crate was carried out into the hallway, both brothers wearing an expression of shock on their faces.

Most of these rooms were empty, forgotten things. There was no reason to open them up, not anymore. The guests have stopped visiting a long time ago, have stopped exploring their home a very long time ago, and both brothers cared for and repaired what they wished to live in; these spaces were only to get back and forth, one place to another more efficiently. They had been sure nothing of importance had been left here.

Taking a moment, staring down at the wooden crates lid and rocking with ease with the walls and flooring as the pressure pushed and pulled far away outside, one brother gurgled, pushed the crate holders shoulder and prompted them forward, back to their homes well kept hall. With slightly unsteady steps, holding the crate close to their chest, the Chefs made their way back, closing the door to the cold and dusty rooms and floors that were long forgotten and continually ignored. The heat of the kitchen was oozing to this floor from the elevator, but the sweltering aspect of it was gone and one brother shook himself, rolled his shoulders as they tromped to their bedroom.

It was ever so odd, finding a pulley back there. There was one farther away, on the lower floor, not to mention the looping hooks that trailed through their home and main kitchen areas, up to the top and even to the entrance of their place of residence. The one they had just stumbled upon was not theirs by all means, alone and silent in that room; their personal pulley was larger, more complex, and could lead anywhere if the right levers were pulled. Usually up, to the Lobby and Quarters, but it led down as well, to the Lair and Prison, and it has been in use for many years now. The one in that destroyed room was older, possibly not of their era; such things had a habit of rising up from the depths, from times long past and way before their births.

Such things were not for them to ponder.

Setting the crate down onto their bed, letting out a heavy huff of wet air from their lungs, the Chef took off their hat to scratch idly at their head, burbling with confused sounds. Their brother pushed them out of the way with their shoulder, stretched face drawn and thin, wrinkles pulled to their neck and throat in bundles of concentration of questioning, and slapped a meaty hand onto the lid, pawed at it with thick fingers for a moment. They bent slightly to the left and right, leering at it as they pushed their fingers under the wooden lips and pulled.

It popped off with ease, barely a jolt to off balance the Chef, and letting out a wheezing cry of triumph they waved the lid about, taking a half step back. It was enough for their brother to forcefully squeeze in between them and the crate, flapping a hand at their face and almost knocking them over in their haste to see what was inside. It earned them a light slap on the back of their neck, a cry of irritation behind them, but they bent over the crate, fatty arms on the lip sides to better see into it as it sunk into their bedding under their weight. 

Their brother tried to push forward, get back into their first place but a bellow from the other Chef stopped them, the sound mixed up and confused but incredibly elated of all things. Their face pulled down, eyes opening wider and twined down and frown increasing as they dropped the lid with a clatter of the wooden floor boards, hand raising to their chin and face in sudden sharp confusion.

Before they could stomp forward and force themselves over the crate their brother leaned back a couple of steps, almost ramming into the other Chef as they raised something high above them in a meaty fist. They squinted their eyes at it before something like understanding crossed their face and they practically lunged forward, hand shooting into the crate and wrapping around something soft yet sturdy.

Once taken out they let out a hoot, face and wrinkles twisting and pulling and yanking into a somewhat vague yet menacing smile, short blunt teeth pocking out as a gargle of laughter escaped them. Their brother actually chuckled, their own blocky teeth gritted and grinned at their brother before turning attention back to their own doll.

Turning it carefully in their hands, the Chef traced the cloth of it, how it bulged and opened up like an apron on the front, threads and fringed strings sticking out this way and that, and the dark stone head pocked out of the bundle, chalky and thick even with the blobbed white puff tied with a thin string on top of it. Another cry eased out of them, twisting the almost completely round thing in their hands, fingers tracing the haphazardly sculptured face of wrinkles and chips. Their hand then went to their own face, lightly brushing over their own wrinkles and masses of flesh and skin.

It took awhile for them to return to the crate again, to find the other left over things inside. The plate was there, some special old thing they had found that the one above them seemed to enjoy using; long ago her hands would ever so elegantly pet over it, softly, before handing it back with another requested dish. It was cleaned, though of course they'd be washing it again to swipe away the cold salt air that it had traveled through, and under that was bundled a bunch of papers, old worn strips and newer, sharper bits and pieces.

It only took a moment to recognize their own handwriting on the papers, eraser marks gumming up sections here or there, black and grey lines a testament to their difficulties in handwritten practices. Sent back to them, for whatever reason, but it had protected both plate and dolls from the harsh wind and dark air that floated outside of the metal walls. Both brothers sensed no ill will from it, though they'd not notice either way.

Not having seen their downstairs neighbor for so long made memory misty, though this was obviously his handiwork. They barely remembered him, could barely recall his features, but the dolls were from him, just like the few other knick knacks they had in their room, hidden away in boxes and cabinets and dressers. They had little interest in such things, especially nowadays, but he collected and hoarded alongside the one who lugged around luggage and cleaned up after the guests, taking forgotten shoes and hats and coats alongside the suitcases full of unnecessary, useless goodies that the both of them seemed to love so much.

It had been such a long time since the Chefs seen either of them.

Carefully, cautiously, the Chefs found a place for their new dolls, setting them down to lean against each other on the shelf over the silent heater, broken and unused for who knew how long, keys hung above in neat rows.

The round, cloth bundled dolls hunched together perfectly, backs pressed against the wall, blackened rocky faces pushed together and leaning in stable balance. The little puffed white hats leaned to the sides but stayed put, tied neatly to the stony heads, and both brothers let out excited wheezes and hollers at the sight. 

It looked just like the two of them, always together!

After a few minutes of distracted and hyper babbling and gibberish, it took a lone sound far away outside to refocus them.

The lost seagull had returned, this time louder. It had gotten Hungry.

One Chef growled low in their throat, the wrinkles now bundling downwards, hands clenching into fists as they turned away from the dolls and looked about, knowing there was no window in their room but looking anyway. They hated seagulls, and the next cry from it made them shake their head, tight fists pressing to their ears as they stomped to their bedroom doorway, grumbling darkly.

Their brother looked up, away from fawning over the gifts, and then straightened up, sniffling before taking a deep breath. Hacking up a cough that suddenly whipped through them, thumping their chest for a moment with a fatty hand, they followed after their brother. They've taken a long enough break by now; the kitchen needed them.

Before they left the room, one Chefs plump hand wrapped around the lights chain, both glanced to their respected dolls. An involuntary twist of their lips made both of their teeth jut out again, wrinkles distorting their features as their faces morphed into hideous smiles.

It was ever so rare nowadays, getting gifts from their friends.


End file.
